Never
by Funeral Lilies
Summary: LuciusNarcissa ANGST! Narcissa contemplates the mistakes of her husband, as well as her own.Deals with violence, abuse etc. Set before Draco was born.


**NEVER**

**Fandom: Harry Potter**

**Rating: M**

**Pairing: Lucius/Narcissa**

**Summary: Narcissa contemplates the mistakes of her husband, as well as her own. **

**Author's Note: This was not what I meant to write at all. I love Lucius to pieces, so I really hate the idea of him doing things like this. It's really hard to write stories like this one, at least I think so, but I tried my best...**

The memories sickened her. It was, as if the imprints of his hands were always visible on her pale skin – small, red crescents where his fingernails had dug into the softness of her neck, purple bruises where his thumbs had pressed hard at her jugular veins. If she closed her eyes and tried to visualise what had happened those dark nights, nothing emerged from the depths of her mind. No matter how hard she tried (why she wanted to remember, she did not know), she could never picture him raising his hand to strike her, or pushing her to the floor after ripping her robes apart. Still, she knew it had happened more than once. His marks were on her, the torn clothes hidden deep inside her wardrobe where the House-elves wouldn't find them. At first, she had tried to fight back, by keeping her wand ready at all times, even at the dinner-table. It had saved her one time – after that, he had learned to expect resistance, and the methods he used to punish her became even more cruel and refined. He never took the wand from her, although he of course had many opportunities. She did not know why, and it scared her even more than the violence he made her endure. At least, when he hit her, she knew what was happening and when it would stop – he would never try to kill her, even though she sometimes feared for her life. That was the kind of man he was – willing to hurt and harm her in every possible way, ready to force himself on her although she cried and begged him to stop – but far too scared to kill her. For some reason, he couldn't be without her. She had no idea of how things had been at the Manor before she moved in – his parents had been dead for ten years at least, and there were no brothers or sisters. Bella had told her many rumours about him, of course... the many, beautiful girlfriends; the murders he had committed; his mother, who had jumped out of a window in front of her son's eyes... Once, the stories about her handsome husband had intrigued her. She herself had never been special – the youngest of three sisters, never a top student at Hogwarts, never truly devoted to anything besides clothes and fashion. He, however, had taken an interest in her at Bella's wedding, a few years earlier. He had looked gorgeous that night; long blond hair and black robes with details in silver, the look in his grey eyes telling her he wanted to feel her skin against his, soon... She had fallen in love like a clueless schoolgirl, and Bella had laughed at her – told her, that almost every Pure-Blood girl in England had been with him, and why would she want something so many others had had already? Narcissa didn't know. She had been at Hogwarts while he had, though they hadn't been in the same year, and she had never noticed anything special about him then. At the wedding, she hadn't been able to tear her gaze away from him.

Some nights had been quite different. She would lie in the bed already, reading, trying to stay calm and avoid doing anything that might make him lose his temper. Never once during those long, lonely years had she been able to concentrate on a single book, though she must have read one a week – not one story or main character had managed to stay in her mind for longer than a few minutes, as she listened anxiously for his footsteps outside the door or his hand turning the handle. In the end, she would just put the book aside and try to get some sleep, although she was well aware she could never fall asleep until he had come and either spared or punished her. She would lie between the sheets, curled up like a baby, feeling her stomach ache as she thought of his fists and his blank, cold expression as he forced her to spread her legs apart. Never did she cry, as she waited for him to come to bed. The tears came in the mornings, when she was alone and he had gone to his study or to London. She cried, on her way to the bathroom; tears mixed with the spraying water as she stood in the shower trying to wash the shame away, and she let them fall, sobbed loudly while she covered her face with her hands. She knew that he wouldn't notice, and that he wouldn't have cared if he should have seen.

The special nights – she would never have endured without them. He would enter their bedchamber, later than usual, his eyes red and his hands trembling. She would feel, rather than see, how he flicked his wand to turn out the lights, and then got into bed beside her. His breathing would be heavier than usual – then, the sobs would come. Barely audible at first – she would cease to breathe herself, trying to hear if they were really there – and then, there would be no doubts. His hands would be on her, caressing gently, helplessly...

"Narcissa," he would whisper, despair and agony in his voice. "Narcissa..." At this point, she would get up to sit beside him, stroking his hair as he moved his head to her lap. Like a child tormented by nightmares he would lie there, his tears wet on her bare skin as he told her of all the terrible things he had done.

"I killed a little boy in front of his parents," he could say, and shake with regret as he continued: "Afterwards, I killed them, the woman first... There was this voice in my head telling me to hurt that man as much as I possibly could... I envied him, Narcissa... Though he was just a Muggle, I envied him because of what he had... because of his wife and his child..." She never replied to any of the things he said on these nights. The bruises and cuts on her body were still aching, old and fresh ones living on her like parasites. She heard him speaking of murdering young Muggle girls with beautiful eyes, heard him crying at the thought of all the small children he had turned into orphans, and begging her to forgive him for all the things he had done to her. Not even then did she speak – she sat there in silence, caressing his hair, and in the end, he would fall asleep. For a while, she wouldn't move at all, but let him rest with his head in her lap like he had done so often before they had been married. It gave her back, even for just a second, the feeling of love she had once felt for him. It was a mere memory now, like so many other things... But it was there, and it would never, ever leave her.


End file.
